


shouldn't

by ilgaksu



Category: Haikyuu!!, 言の葉の庭 | Kotonoha no Niwa | Garden of Words (2013)
Genre: Garden of Words AU, I was telling my friend about this film and then my hand just slipped, Iwaizumi is a third year/about to graduate, Iwaizumi is the shoemaker, Kotonoha no Niwa AU, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Linear Narrative, Oikawa is the teacher, Reference to Suicide Ideation, Sorry Not Sorry, Teacher-Student Relationship, reference to masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 22:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4410344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilgaksu/pseuds/ilgaksu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You saved my life," he keeps saying, "You saved my life."</p><p>The Garden of Words AU nobody asked for and I wrote anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shouldn't

**Author's Note:**

> For a quick intro as to the film this is based on, I'd recommend
> 
>  
> 
> [this AMV](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2yNZfHGnDOQ)

"You saved my life," he keeps saying, "You saved my life."

 

 

Hajime is eighteen years old. At eighteen years old, you should be stammering at pretty girls and wondering what to do with your life. At eighteen years old, you should be in class learning about how all empires fall, the afternoon light gilding everything like thread or bracelets or the flecks in Oikawa Tooru's eyes. 

 

At eighteen years old, you shouldn't know life can be something you have to save. 

 

Hajime cups the back of Oikawa's head in his hand, his palm cradled against the base of his skull (the unfamiliar weight of it;  _the head is the heaviest part of the human body_ ; the smell of apple shampoo;  _are you paying attention, Iwaizumi-san?_ ) and he thinks: 

 

The head is the heaviest part of the human body. Once the head falls back, the body falls with it. It's just gravity. It's just gravity. It's just he's holding Oikawa Tooru up in more ways than one, and Oikawa's tears are smearing his shirt collar slippery. The sweat is sliding down his back and prickling in the autumn heat of Tokyo's last summer blaze. And Oikawa can't stop talking, doesn't even try, just keeps running with it, chanting you saved my life you saved my life  _yousavedmylife_ like shutting his mouth would kill him, and Hajime's always wondered that, watched Oikawa's nervous chatter and wondered what would happen if it dried up, and - 

 

Iwaizumi Hajime has never been outside of Tokyo. When he was nine years old, his mother's boyfriend bought her a pair of purple shoes. He will die without seeing out this century. 

 

These are facts. They are inescapable. 

 

_You saved my life. Iwa-chan, Iwa-chan, you saved my life._

 

(At eighteen years old, you shouldn't -) 

 

"Same," Hajime says, low and gruff, as Oikawa twists further into his arms and all he can smell is apple. "Yeah. Yeah, same." 

 

* 

 

He remembers the first time he saw Oikawa, reading shojo manga in the raining park; he doesn't remember when he begun imagining whether Oikawa would taste like the chocolate and beer that hung loosely from his fingers when he turned the page. Or rather, trying to pinpoint the exact moment of that is difficult because it makes him realise how long that moment has been past.  

 

"It's all I could taste then," Oikawa admits later, shrugging in his flat, the walls pale and his eyes like great moons, and Hajime looks at him and thinks  _I could have helped with that._

*

 

He sees Oikawa in the corridor. He's wearing that shirt, the one so light it's almost translucent, with the bow around his neck like a prize cat. He sees his reflection in the polish of Oikawa's shoes and when he looks up in the glint of Oikawa's eyes. The transformation of Oikawa Tooru into Oikawa-sensei was abrupt, like when he hit his thumb with the hammer in his workshop, and left him reeling afterwards with the throb of it. 

 

Of course, for pain to linger there has to be a wound, but Hajime was too busy being told to think about the future to notice the bleeding out. 

 

"What do you want to do with your life?" they ask him in the guidance counselling office.

 

_To make him happy. To make myself happy. To -_

 

Salt air and leather like salted butter and dark chocolate on his tongue. 

 

(At eighteen, you should -)  

 

"Why should I want to do anything?" he replies, and folds his arms, irritated.

 

*

 

Here's a secret: anger is a secondary emotion. 

 

*

 

When Hajime closes his eyes, he thinks of Oikawa, bird-like and big-eyed, of his fingers around Oikawa's ankle and the minute shift of the delicate bones underneath, the brush of thumb against indent. He throws his head back and stares at the ceiling and his hand is hot and his head hurts. He feels guilty as fresh meat on its first day in hell, the want itching under his skin. So when another third year built like a brick shithouse laughs around  _bet he's a slut,_ Hajime squares his shoulders ( _What did you say about Oikawa-sensei?_ ) and wades into the punch fist-before-head like he fell head-over-heels. 

 

He spits up blood, hears them say  _guess someone's got a crush,_ and he's never thought love would taste like iron but it does, it does.

 

It does, and guess what? 

 

It fucking sucks. 

 

*

 

Hajime graduates, rockets out of there faster than you can say _fuck you very much_ , no university place but he's got an apprenticeship out by the coast, no confessions but he's no stars in his eyes on that count, no answer but he's gunning for everything when he turns up outside Oikawa's flat. 

 

"I made you shoes," he says, his heart in his mouth and leather in his hands. He holds them out like an offering, Oikawa Tooru his last and only god; and Oikawa blinks hard, Oikawa opens the door wider, and Oikawa lets him inside. 

 

* 

 

"I want to make shoes and make people happy," he tells Oikawa the third time they meet. It's not like they have an arrangement so much as they both keep to these rain days like a sacrament, and that's enough of an arrangment for Hajime to keep coming to the park. 

 

When he was nine years old, his mother's boyfriend bought her a pair of purple shoes, and he'd seen her eyes light up every time she wore them, and Iwaizumi Hajime may not see out this century but lighting someone up like that seems worth sticking it out as far as he can. 

 

"Did you make those yourself?" Oikawa says, gesturing to the loafers Hajime is wearing. They are hand-sewn, the stitches crooked, but Hajime cut his teeth on these shoes and loves them, he'll wear them down to the bone before any kind of teasing makes him take them off. 

 

"Yep," he says, and squares his shoulders. Oikawa sees this and smiles. 

 

"That's lovely, Iwa-chan," Oikawa says, "So noble," and Hajime spends so long processing the compliment he never protests at the name, and so it sticks. 

 

It sticks.  

 

*

 

The pencil shivers in his fingers and Oikawa towers above him, his foot pale on the paper as he stands on the bench barefoot and lets Hajime draw the outline. 

 

"You have freckles on your shoulders," Oikawa says, amused, and Hajime looks at him.  A beat too long before Oikawa glances away. "I never noticed."

 

"You never asked," Hajime says shortly, went back to his outline, can't miss the low curl of Oikawa's laugh if he tries. 

 

*

 

There's no point to school and no point to anything, so Hajime goes to the park instead, goes to the wooden pagoda and ducks under it, shaking the rain from his hair. 

 

Someone else is there today; a young man in his twenties, with big manga heroine eyes and soft hair. His shirt has a bow around the neck. He's holding a worn copy of _Sailor Moon_ , vol.12. 

 

"Sorry, I'll -" Hajime says, clutching the strap of his bag and backing away. Annoyed at someone finding this last sanctuary and hiding it. He's getting better at the hiding part. It's a work in progress. 

 

"Don't be silly," the man says, tilting his head and smiling as though Hajime is a particularly absurd pet, eyes sharp and clear. "You're not interrupting. I was just hiding out for a while." 

 

Hajime swallows. The man pats the other bench and Hajime feels his body tugged towards it, feels himself sit. The man smiles and goes back to his magical girls.  

 

"Same," Hajime says softly, belatedly. He rubs the back of his neck; tired from hunching over his tools all night. The head is the heaviest part of the human body.  The air smells like ozone and when he worries his lip it tastes like iron. He shrugs, helplessly. "Yeah, same." 

**Author's Note:**

> [come cry with me about sad volleyball babies](ilgaksu.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  


End file.
